


John, You Ignorant Slut!

by Iwantthatcoat



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes (Rathbone films)
Genre: Brief mention of twins in sexual situations, Bumbling!Watson, Idiot!watson, M/M, slut!watson
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-16
Updated: 2017-03-31
Packaged: 2018-10-05 21:37:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,264
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10317506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Iwantthatcoat/pseuds/Iwantthatcoat
Summary: Fill for Tumblr's Sherlockkinkmeme: Prompt#34  for anonymous by Iwantthatcoat.My first Rathbone-Bruce Universe ;)Holmes is just now figuring out that every time Watson helps him by distracting people who could get in the way of The Work, he is actually having sex with them. How can Holmes get in on the action? Bumbling!Slut!Watson from the Rathbone-Bruce Universe, who essentially only does one thing, but he certainly does it well...and frequently.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The title, for those not old enough to know vintage Saturday Night Live, comes from the news debates between Jane Curtain and Dan Ackroyd. He would always say, "Jane, you ignorant slut!"

Dr John H. Watson is not a genius.

I am, of course, a genius.

Oh no, this is not said to be boastful. It is simple fact. And to underestimate one's abilities is as much a crime against truth as it is to overestimate them. I am a genius. I have seen in the papers that my "IQ", as they are calling it now, is estimated at 190. How they arrive at that particular figure I've no idea. I have never taken any such test and consider any arbitrary measurement of intelligence quite useless. Here's hoping whatever test Wechsler is working on will prove useful for assessing intelligence as a truly scientific measurement. But I digress.

Watson is not a genius.

Watson is an idiot.

I say that with a great deal of love and affection, because, frankly, the man is _my_ idiot. Or at least... that is what I used to think. Now, I'm not so sure. Which is why, I suppose, I am writing this out to you...whoever "you" are. 

I need a sounding board for my thoughts, you see. Watson is so often the whetstone for my mind, but this... this I can not discuss with him. 

Begin at the beginning, then.

When I first met Watson at Barts, I was introduced to him by Stamford, a mutual friend. Well, I say friend, but as it turns out, that isn't quite an accurate term for his relationship with either one of us. His relationship to me is that of "casual acquaintance", and to Watson...well, I'm not quite sure what, yet, but "friend" doesn't quite fit the bill.

I had just perfected the Sherlock Holmes Haemoglobin Test-- the previous one dated all the way back to the Victorian Era, and while it could detect the presence of blood as opposed to, say, mud stains, rust stains, or fruit stains, it had no way of discerning a specific blood type. I had gone through many, many unsuccessful formulations, so I was a bit distracted by my success and not at my best, but even so...there was something in Stamford's manner that had suggested to me that he thought I was most definitely not the type Watson was seeking in a flatmate, and he was doubtful the match would be appropriate. Well, he wouldn't have been the first with that opinion.

I was scarcely a month out of my rooms in Montague Street when no less than three people had decided that they would seek other living arrangements. One had found his half of the rent still too steep, or so he had said. Another, simply ditched me. The third seemed to have had a problem with the condition of the rooms; I suppose I could have tidied up a bit more before agreeing to meet him there. It wouldn't have mattered, though. I am a dreadful prospect for a flatmate, and I told Stamford so during lunch the previous day. He had given me a look of carefully metered out sympathy. 

When he arrived the next day, accompanied by an older man with an easygoing smile in need of a place to hang his hat, I thought I was destined to disappoint yet again, so I simply told him all my failings right from the start. Might as well come clean and wait while he calculated the balance sheet. The noise of the violin when I need to think alternated with the taciturn silence of my black moods... pitted against a fairly steady paycheck.

I was finished with attempting to impress, only to be rejected. But this new candidate simply asked me if I played well or poorly. On that front I have no reason to be dishonest. I play quite well, and said so. He smiled, told me he needed a restful environment when he was recovering and was somewhat short-tempered as a result of frayed nerves, but had an entirely new set of vices when he was well. I hadn't considered what he meant by vices. Whatever they were was irrelevant. I certainly had mine as well, but it wouldn't do to speak of cocaine and morphine in front of the good doctor. My use was limited, in any case, only to when I was bored out of my skull. I'd have to cut back even further with a medical man around, or so I thought at the time. Soon after moving in, however, it became obvious that he had left a great deal of his medical skill behind on the battlefield.

Yes, he could tend to basic wounds, as he demonstrated the day he fell into the table and sent a book flying at my head, like an enemy missile. I was cleaned and bandaged well enough. Of course had he checked my pupils for dilation with any competency, he might have suspected the narcotics swimming through my system, and I counted myself lucky for his poor observational skills. 

It didn't matter. Mine were more than enough for both of us, and he certainly wasn't lacking in courage. Watson had a weapon and wasn't afraid to use it. He also had what I would come to discover was a unique talent for creating a distraction when I needed to search a room in privacy.

There have been several occasions when I had been needing to spend some time, say, examining the underside of a rug, and with a mere glance in his direction, Watson was off chatting up the butler about some musician or actor, and then they somehow seemed to continue their discussion in an adjoining room. I was grateful to resume my focus on the work. After fifteen minutes or so, they would return. By then, I had whatever evidence I needed, and we left. Occasionally, we did get asked by a client to stay a while longer. Perhaps overnight? I thought nothing of it.

Once, I needed to examine a classroom for a missing answer key to an important college midterm, and he cleared the room of a teacher and his star pupil...who both came back grinning at Watson and each other until I had to abandon my line of questioning. It was unnerving.

Then there were...twin sisters. They and Watson had come back later than usual, and looked quite worse for wear.

I cursed myself for taking so long to notice exactly what he was up to. I had truly thought it was mindless chat. Yes, I was remarkably stupid, I know. But by the time we were headed to a case at a local parishioner's, I was aware enough to have advised him to wait outside-- lest vows be broken on my account. And when he cleared the room of a housemaid and cook no more than thirty minutes after ridding the barn of a stable boy and groundsman, I knew his talents were exceptional. 

I've yet to see it in action, though...to hear whatever Svengali's charm he is able to weave that is somehow effective on such diverse clientele. Men and women. Old and young. Experienced and naive. 

I am not nearly the thinking machine Watson makes me out to be. And it would be unfair to expect a man with such limited capacity for higher thinking to come to this realisation on his own. I have certainly had my fair share of very beautiful women throw themselves at me, sometimes to encourage me to take their case, when that is hardly necessary...and other times to beg me for mercy when they are revealed to be criminals, when that is utterly pointless. Where, I ask you, is the challenge in that? No, there is little reason for me to try to deceive you. It only muddies my own thought process. The "challenge" is irrelevant. My proclivities (when I am aware of them) are not tied to perfume, pressed-powder and feminine charms. It is fair to say that when I do long for physical contact, it is in the form of a more rugged embrace. And when these thoughts come to me, I can't help but wonder-- how he would approach me, had _I_ been another interfering spectator.

Which leads me to a troubling thought: since Watson is clearly nondiscriminating and unconcerned with his number of partners, why hasn't he approached me?


	2. Chapter 2

I am sure the fault lies with me. I am the detective. I should have known long ago that he and I danced to the same tune. The opening gambit was to be mine.

With Stamford it was quite obvious-- his style of clothing alone spoke volumes-- but he was also frequently heading off to "meet a friend". In retrospect, the way he looked at Watson had indicated that he had once been such a "friend"-- or perhaps Stamford simply wished that to have been the case. Though if he had wished it, I saw no indication that Watson wouldn't have been more than willing to make that wish come true. He was not particular. I suppose Stamford's aim had been for Watson to lodge with another confirmed bachelor, to alleviate the need for any social disguise, but he had been unsure of my personal bent (the reason behind his discomfort in recommending me). Understandable, as I prefer to keep private matters private, and being tangentially connected to the legal profession, I.... 

Well, to be honest (no reason not to be honest when conversing with an entirely fictional construct designed solely to help me focus my thoughts more efficiently through a pseudo-dialogue... but old habits die hard), I have little experience in the art of romance. My sole romantic attachment was during my years at Uni. But, when it comes to sharing one's life, one's home, one's very self... no one holds a candle to my Watson. He is my partner in life as well as work. I cannot conceive of ever being without him. 

You might think an intelligent man would realise that, no matter how much he wished it so, nothing would ever come to fruition when not a single word of this had ever been spoken. You might further suppose this intelligent man would surely see the futility in wishing for a relationship, yet in not having completed this crucial step. Instead, I merely observed as Watson pursued those who were of interest to him with flawless efficiency. I did not pursue and was not pursued.

It had been a cold evening, and the firelight threw its alternating patterns of light and shadow across the floor of the drafty country estate when the maid fineally returned, informing us Lady Hilda Trelawney Hope was unavailable. I was no closer to finding her husband's missing correspondance containing battle plans which, if fallen into enemy hands, would most certainly lead to massive casualties. Watson looked quite disappointed to hear Lady Hilda was not at home (and I suspected she indeed was). I must admit, I was more than a little angered by that fact. Not of Lady Hilda's deceit, but of Watson's disappointment. Clearly, he had missed a golden opportunity-- married or no, Lady Hilda was rumoured to be one of the loveliest women in England. 

Watson would have no idea why, but my feelings on even the _possibility_ of him and Lady Hilda yarking it up in the next room while I searched throughout her home for the hidden letters were more impossible to conceal than the letters themselves. Of course he noticed.

"Do you... need assistance, Holmes? You seem out of sorts," he said.

"No, no, I just--" I don't know what possessed me to say it, but I knew it would be of little consequence. Watson would never understand the request in any case, but I flatter myself to say I had even given it any thought at all before I opened my mouth. "I just, need you to clear the room, Watson."

"But, Holmes..." Oh, the poor confused man. I had really done it now, hadn't I? "We are the only ones in the room. I don't see how I should... oh." Watson gave yet another look of profound disappointment with his puppy-dog eyes, turned, and left.

How do you explain to a man you've been working beside for so many years that you want him? Well it's obvious, in this case, isn't it? You come out and say it as directly as possible. And yet, what did I do? I picked a method so esoteric even I wasn't sure how to interpret it. Clear the room, indeed. I wanted him to clear the room of me. Just like he had with all the others. Whisk me away to some dark corner. Do with me whatever he wished.

The cab ride back was in total silence. He had long ago stopped wondering what he had done to deserve such a cold request. I suppose it wasn't even out of the ordinary, coming from me. No wonder I wasn't on his list of potential lovers. I was truly an arse. 

"Watson, I... want to apologise. About when I asked you to leave. I--"

"Think nothing of it old boy. You needed space to think. I know there are times my presence can be a distraction when there is serious work to be done. It is my pleasure to help you in any way I can--even if it means making myself scarce."

Good old Watson. Yes, you were indeed becoming a distraction, but not in the way you were thinking. "I didn't mean for you to... Well, it is no matter. I didn't mean to be quite so harsh." The apology didn't help.

What if I told him of my feelings? What then? But would I be able to continue to share him with so many others? On our arrival home, I curled upon myself in my chair and thought on the matter. And this is where you came in, my imaginary friend.

It is so... remarkably convenient... to have him whisk bystanders away, but beyond that, this seems an aspect of his nature I can no more modify than my own black moods or untidiness. I need to examine what within me seems to reinforce this possessive aspect. I want him to be mine, that is certain... yet here I am, not laying claim to him in any sense-- even though I know he could hardly be offended by the suggestion. If I want this, I should most certainly do something about it.

After the case ends, perhaps I will say something.

Tonight, I am growing more agitated. If I cannot not find the letters it will lead to disaster, yet I am more certain than ever Lady Hilda is somehow in possession of them. We are set to return to visit her in the morning, but I am reluctant. After all, I would be in need of a distraction yet again, but I do not want to have my Watson occupying her time. I will speak to the lady myself...implore her to reveal where she has hidden the letters.

***

At her estate, during breakfast, she ignores me in favour of her poached eggs...determined not to reveal her role in the matter. Rather than begin an extensive search myself, I sharply inform her that she has ruined her chances at avoiding a scandal and turn to leave. (I'll have to break into her home later and retrieve it after nightfall.) That's when she finally repents, and informs me the letters had, in fact, been in her possession all along. Not surprising. I had been absolutely correct in my belief that they were with someone who knew next to nothing of their value and had no idea what to do with them. To save her undue embarrassment, for the first time in my life I break into a safe to put papers back in instead of taking them out.

Watson congratulates me on a fine bit of deduction, as well as of lockpicking, and in my exuberance I offhandedly comment that I haven't even required his patented 'services of distraction'. So much depends upon a slip of the tongue in an unguarded moment. Though I must admit to my having had quite a few of those recently. 

There is a moment when I feel as if I have ruined everything. Another insult was uncalled for. "Well, if it's not helpful..." he finally says, with a wry grin. He knows it was; I have thanked him for it countless times...back before I...understood. 

"You know that isn't how I meant it."

"Then how, exactly, do you mean it? Perhaps we should...clear the room...to discuss it further?"

I must now amend my previous assertion that Watson is an idiot. I was gravely mistaken. 

But only in the sense that his idiocy does not hold true universality. 

His... carnal... knowledge appears to be, shall I say, profound? Certainly as thorough as my knowledge of chemistry. (I still dispute that infernal list. While my knowledge of astronomy was understandably termed 'nil', I refuse to say the same of my knowledge of philosophy and literature... and my knowledge of politics hardly merits the descriptor "feeble"). _This_... this is Watson's area of expertise, bordering on genius, and there is no hiding my blush from him. I find myself struggling for speech.

"No, we should discuss this at home, I think...Sherlock," he says, for my ears alone.

I cannot recall his ever using my first name. I have always been 'Holmes' and he 'Watson' in a sort of casual camaraderie, but hearing him speak my first name, soft and intimate, is a revelation. I want to speak his softly in return, like a secret revealed at last, but once again I fail to utter a sound. I follow him, wordlessly, to a waiting cab for yet another silent ride to Baker Street. This is completely unlike the previous day. Now, the air hangs thick with an entirely different sort of tension. Watson does not take his eyes off me for even a moment. When the cabbie asks where to, he answers without so much as a glance in his direction.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note the rating change

His eyes never leave me. My mind floods itself with analogies. I am a butterfly pined to a board, a slide beneath the microscope, the hare to his fox. In all these situations I should be paralysed with fear, but I am not. I am merely certain that I am in capable hands. Just inside the landing, Watson turns to me and growls, "Do you remember when Phelps called me 'Three Continents'? I speak nothing but the Queen's English, yet I've had men and women from all around the world. Still, you seem to think you are so complex that I can't read you like a book. More like a well-worn pulp, Sherlock."

He makes short work of my balance, and I find myself up against the wall, kept aloft only by a thigh wedged tightly between both of mine. I let my knees give way, sliding down onto him, feeling the pressure of his leg creating yet another straining pressure for myself. He responds by pushing his entire body against me, and it is _remarkable_. His lips, his tongue, and I can barely keep upright, much less keep up. Despite the similarly frantic pace, this is nothing like the inept fumbling I had experienced in my youth.

Suddenly, the thought of his doing this with others invades my mind, but it sparks in me not the jealousy I had been expecting, but instead kindles my competitive nature. There may have been many others, and others still to come, but I am determined there shall be none better than I. "John," I whisper in his ear. "John, show me. Teach me. I promise to be an eager and inventive pupil."

"I'm sure you will come up with all sorts of clever things, Sherlock. Watch and learn for as long as you can. But there will be a time to abandon thought."

I find the prospect both exciting and frightening. What am I without the prattling of my ever-present thoughts? In the past, I had always managed to retain some degree of control, yet here I am, rapidly losing all semblance of it, and I still have yet to remove my trousers. I speak too soon, as John is now divesting me of them, and is hastily removing my pants as well and, oh God, how am I here already? Fit to--

"Talk to me, Sherlock. Tell me your thoughts right now. I want to hear you stumble through your words."

"How am I here already... fit to burst."

"Yes, that's it."

"Fit to burst and holding on as best I can as you...ahhh... engulf me. I want to... see how you do this... so I can...take my turn." I am concentrating on his movements when his mouth slides off me in a slow, long drag and I find myself shuddering, then taking a moment to catch my breath.

"You stopped talking. Don't stop talking. I want to hear every thought. Tell me everything."

"This is an experiment, for us, for...agh...hhh...hhh...for me, isn't it? When do I finally surrender my thoughts to this. To you. And I am afraid I will take far too long to-- John! I've never...oh... I'm so sorry, but I don't think I can... that's fine though, that feels... that's quite... good... like that. A firm press... feels... right, and it-- Oh, God! How are you still able to......"

"I'm not joking, Sherlock. The words stop and I stop. I want to hear you." 

"I'll keep talking... just... please... oh....oh.... John! How can you do that and still manage to breathe, I can't imagine how you... I didn't think you could possibly take more, I... hhh.... hhhh.... _No!! No! I'm still talking,_ I'm still talking I swear I'm... I can feel all my....You know how very flushed I am, how heated, and you can... feel how very hard I am. Feel me pulse for you. What you don't know...is... that warmth... is _everywhere_ now. I feel it in my chest, I feel it radiating up to my stomach and it makes me feel so very, very alive. Words, words. I'm adjusting to it, this rising level of... that's the biochemicals flooding my system, I can feel them releasing and I... I... need...I don't know... I don't know what to, how to, I.... I...hhhhh... talk... more talking...I want to feel more of your body. I want to be... oh... oh yes... perfect... grab me tighter, I want to... feel... your hands on me when... when I... can I touch your head, John? Can I just... oh... good... yes, like that. Th...thank you. Can I ... oh yesss, John. Mmmmmm, yessss. I want to push into you I want to... Oh! I ... Try. I don't think I can, but try. No, no, that's, that's fine. That's.... Words. You want my words. That's not uncomfortable at all, I thought it would feel uncomfortable to have anything inside me, but it isn't at all, it just, I can feel myself contract and release around your finger and I've, _oh, God_ , I'd quite forgotten all about that, in my unnecessary concern, I've... but now I'm...oh, it feels even stronger now that I've returned my focus to your mouth. I...I want to... to push just a...would it hurt you if I just...pushed... a bit...oh, yes, John, yes, this is so ...ah! That! Again! Wherever that was... again please please I...I ....talk...yes talk need wooooords John! John! John! John. That was....that... it still is.... Up, up, please, here."

"You have no idea, do you? No idea how long I've wanted to do that."

I breathe deeply and let my mind reengage. "No." Still searching for my words.

"I thought not. I thought you could read me just as well as I read you, and you were just not interested. At first, I thought not at all. Then I amended it to not with someone you spend so much time with. That you preferred to... keep that sort of thing in a different compartment."

"Is that why you sought out others so frequently? A distraction since you thought I had no interest?"

"No. I have... always enjoyed having different partners. I..."

"I am not asking you to change... John." 

I reach down for his buckle and he sweeps my hand away and kisses it gently. "This is all I want right now," he says, and leans forward to kiss my lips. My scent on his mustache gives me pause, and he expertly sees and correctly diagnoses my hesitation. "I'm..." I shake my head. "Not, yet. I'm...I'm not averse to kissing, it's not that at all, I'm just..." I am even redder now than before. I want to kiss him, maybe just a bit anyway, if I... I place my lips to the surface of his, not daring to delve inside. John laughs. I flush harder still. 

"That's fine. That's fine. Give yourself time. _I_ find the taste of you appealing; that is enough. I trust that apart from this, it was--"

"Remarkable, extraordinary, brilliant, scintillating."

"I see your vocabulary has returned."

"I wish to make you equally speechless."

"It would take far less."

"You have no, compunctions-- issues-- with my inexperience in these matters?"

"So long as you have none with my...." 

"Expertise?" I grin. "None whatsoever."


End file.
